The week that followed my family dinner was one of silent, seismic shifts. The “real” we had declared in my apartment wasn’t accompanied by fanfare or public announcements. It existed in the quiet spaces between us: in the goodnight texts that no longer felt like contractual check-ins, in the way Derek would call just to hear about my day, and in the unspoken understanding that the next dates on our list weren’t obligations, but promises.
It was both thrilling and terrifying. We were a secret country, establishing our own laws while the outside world—Marcus’s cold silence, Evan’s lurking presence—remained a border we weren’t yet ready to cross.
Date Six arrived: the Marshall & Rye staff holiday party. An “Ugly Sweater” party. The pressure of Michelin stars and parental approval was gone,
